What have I become or
Maybe what have I always been
That seems to be the thought
That encircles the depression
That shoves my face
To the hidden mirror
And holds my cheeks
Turned down and
Keeps my eyes focused
On the ***** stained shirt
And the torn jeans
That seem to fit the distorted
Image that surely isn't me.
There is no answer for
The ones from whom
I have turned away
And there is no seeking
For the answer in the horizon
And there is no sound
From the helpers who
Speak only as they are
Pulling your ears to
Their black hole of needs.